Visible City

They come out after midnight when all the bars and restaurants are closed. They come holding books and pamphlets, reading aloud to each other. Rain moistens their paper. Lightning causes howls and genuflecting.
Readers take over the streets, words rule sidewalks, climb buildings, leap back down, mixing poems and prose. The city becomes one long paragraph, as musical as a string quartet.
When there is momentary silence readers stop in their tracks, eyes closed, meditating on the magic of literature.
One voice breaks the silence. A women with a guitar in the middle of the street. She wants to sing folk songs. Moving as one, the writers charge forward and beat her senseless with their books. Then we resume reading, moving ina stately manner.
Musicians need to get their own city.

Sneaky Writer

Burt was a sneaky writer who carried a notebook everywhere. He jotted down observations and bits of conversation. An image inspired him--taffy, for example.
Burt hid in closets, cubbyholes, under stoops, lingering in dark stairwells, crawling under tables at events. He aspired to be a modern day Bob Woodward.
He hid under a couch during a private knitting circle. Someone saw his foot sticking out. Screaming ensued, followed by death by knitting needle.
Burt was buried in an unmarked grave, with only squirrels sneaking around searching for nuts. Such is the fate of most writers. Bloggers never sneak in society. We have very good memories and don't need notebooks.

On the Subway

He was slumped sideways in his seat, drooling. He had a scruffy beard; tufts of unkempt hair stuck out of his black skull cap. He appeared to be semi-conscious, mumbling to himself. Frankly, he didn't smell too good.
I was about to move to another car when he said something that made me start. Shark Meat. He repeated it. I took a closer look. My God. I knew this man. I KNEW this guy.
I stood up and went over, holding my breath. Joe, I shouted. Joe, it's me, Dan. From the writers group.
He looked up, barely able to focus, and burped loudly.
Joe, what happened to you? Your novel, Shark Meat. You had an agent, a book contract. You were on your way.
Now he realized who I was. Breathing heavily, coughing, shivering, he somehow got the words out.
James Patterson, the bastard, stole my idea. My deal fell through. BASTARD!
Then he started crying. Before I could grab him, he slid to the floor and wet himself.
I collected myself, punched in 911, and stuffed a twenty into his ratty pullover jacket. I got out at the next stop.